


Tessa Lance

by acetheticallyy (jacquesdernier)



Category: Original Work, Tessa Lance - Original Work
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hockey, Homophobia, National Hockey League, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Sexism, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquesdernier/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: The first openly gay player in the NHL is a woman.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!! so this little project here all started as a short story for my honors english class. I've recently gotten it back and edited it so it was fit for more public consumption and now here we are! I've decided to make this into kind of a series, since I never got to fit everything that I wanted to say into the original story, so stay tuned for more if you're interested.
> 
> have fun and let me know your thoughts, thanks!!
> 
> NOTE: this story is based on the real national hockey league and keeps all of the same teams. however, I have decide to create my own characters to act as the players. none of the players depicted in this fic are really hockey players, nor are they based on any. maybe someday I'll write rpf, but today is not that day.

 “What’s it been like, Tessa, playing in the NHL?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Three months and this is still the first question I get asked during locker room interviews. Still, I plaster on my best media smile and answer the same way I always have. “It’s great, it really is, the boys are incredible and we play well together and I’m really enjoying my time here so far.” Wally catches my eye and flashes me a smile as he hangs up his jersey. I smile back comically wide, letting my eyes squint shut and my nose wrinkle as I show all my teeth. The group of reporters laughs and I continue. “I worked really hard to make it up here and I feel like everything I did has really paid off.”

My eyes dart around, looking for the next reporter ready to ask a question. In my head repeats a steady mantra of _three more questions, no more no less_. I nod at the next person who leans forward, flashing them a quick smile before they ask, “is it hard to adjust, being the only female in a room full of men?”

 _It’s been three months and I’m still here what the hell do you think_. “No, I don’t think so.” There is sweat dripping down my nose and I use the towel around my shoulders to wipe it off. I would kill for a shower. “We’re all here to do the same thing, and at the end of the day that’s all we’re really thinking about. We come in, we chirp each other, we head onto the ice, and that’s it. It’s the same as when I was with the Pride, just a different rink.” _Do not touch the insinuation that they think you’re trying to seduce half your teammates and the other half is trying to seduce you. Do not touch it._

“There’s no...awkwardness in the locker room now?”

 _Remember that it is unprofessional to smack your head against the side of your locker. Be professional._ “No, nothing like that.” I try to laugh to make it sound like I’m making a joke of the whole thing. If it comes out a little more strangled than lighthearted, I can’t help that. “We’re all really good friends, and it’s a very lighthearted, friendly atmosphere. Nothing weird.” _I have a girlfriend. Macy and I are getting married in the offseason. Stop asking me if there’s any sexual tension between me and my lineys._

“Ms. Lance—“

“Tessa’s fine,” I interrupt. _You don’t call any of the boys by their last names. You never say “Mr.” before you address them. I don’t need special treatment._

“Tessa, how do you feel about playing third line? Your stats in the NWHL were incredible, you made alternate captain, you were on the first line…has it been weird for you, playing on the third line instead of the first?”

 _What’s this? A question about hockey? This must be a dream._ “You know, at the end of the day, I’m still on the starting roster. I’m still playing hockey. That’s all I want to be doing.” This, at least, is easy. This is something I can talk about without feeling like I’m dragging myself naked through a garden of cacti. This is something I haven’t painstakingly answered thousands of times in the past three months. “I do miss the feeling of success that came with being one of the first people on the ice each game, but really I’m just glad to be getting the ice time. It’s all about playing hockey for me, and I got lucky with the third line. Don’t tell the others, but I think we’re the best line on the roster.”

My voice gets louder when I say that and I look over at the guys on the other side of the locker room, grinning widely. Wally flicks a roll of tape at me. “Extra bag skates for you tomorrow morning, Lance!”

I throw the roll of tape back and turn my attention back to the reporters in front of me just as my agent Sebastian announces that we have time for one more question.

“Are you worried about the game against the Canadiens tomorrow?”

_You could go for the professional answer. We have a strong team, Oskarsson is solid in goal, our defense is better than it’s been in years. The Habs have a really solid offense, but our defense has been working hard and we feel like we can combat against whatever they throw at us. It’s anyone’s game, you know, but we feel like we have a good shot. All we can do is put everything we have out there, you know, same as any game, and I think what we have is really good right now. We’re not too worried, we’re just going to go out there and leave it all on the ice._

Oh, hell. I deserve to have some fun.

“Of course not. I’ve got the best line on the roster. And besides that, you’ve seen my stats. I could be the only one on the ice and they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

_X_

Artyom waves me over to his locker as soon as the media leaves. “What was it this time, _krasnyy_?”

“Oh, what is it always, Тёmа? They think I’m seducing you guys, they think you’re all seducing me, they want to know how the fragile little daisy is holding up out there with all the big, scary men.” I shake my head. _Positivity, Lance. They’ll eat you alive if you let them. Don’t let them._ “I did get two real questions about hockey today, so you know…progress, eh?”

“ _Da_. _Mozhet byt', k pley-off._ ”

“Hey Arty, English!” Wally chirps, adjusting his cap so his thick black hair all stays tucked underneath. He should start buying his hats a size up, it’s ridiculous how hard it has to work in order to keep all his hair inside.

“It’s been three years, what the hell man, ever heard of Rosetta Stone?” he continues, nevermind that Artyom’s English is probably better than Walt’s, and Walt was born in Burbank, California. But that was just Wally. He would never chirp you about anything you were actually insecure about.

I let the tension that had built up during the interview roll out of my shoulders. Locker room chirping. Hockey. This, I can do.

 

“Hey Wally,” I say, mimicking Walt’s tone, “Russian! It’s been three years, what the hell man, ever heard of Rosetta Stone?”

“Oh, fuck off, Fancy Lancey,” Wally laughs, “why don’t _you_ learn Russian!”

“ _Ya znayu russkiy yazyk_.” I finally pull the pads off my shoulders and walk over to toss them into my locker, smirking at our dear captain as I go. “I did my homework, old man.”

“You trying to earn yourself more bag skates there, Lance?” There’s a light in his eyes that betrays the fact that he’s joking. The rest of the locker room _ooohh_ s, and I can hear Oskarsson yell “better watch it, Tess, can’t skate with the best line on the roster if your legs fall off!”

I wish the reporters could see this part of the locker room. Just some chirps between friends. Maybe if they could see us all goofing off together after a win, they would stop asking me questions about “awkwardness” and “only female in a room full of men.”

“Alright, alright,” I say, conceding. I strip off my undershirt and grab a fresh towel to wrap around my shoulders, ready to make my way to the showers so I can rinse off before we all head out “How about instead of extra bag skates, I buy team dinner tonight? Burritos, anyone?”

How to tell you really are in a locker room with nineteen male athletes who play hockey for a living: at the mention of burritos, everyone starts cheering and at least five different people start singing the Hallelujah chorus at the top of their lungs. Everyone forgets about the bag skates.

I stay in my sports bra and hockey tights as I make my way to the showers. Behind me I can hear Walt saying “alright so nobody tell her? But I wasn’t gonna make her do the bag skates anyway.” He says it just loud enough that I know I was meant to hear it.

“Burritos on the cap, boys!” This is met with even more whistles and hollering, as if Wally didn’t end up buying team dinner at least seventy-five percent of the time. The guy is such a team dad.

_X_

“What the hell was that!” I spin around on my skates, getting right in the ref’s face. “You’re not gonna call that high stick? This your first game?”

Тёmа gets up from the ice and pulls me back out of the way. “ _Krasnyy_ , it’s not worth it. I’m fine, let’s go.”

It isn’t worth it. He’s right. We’re down 3-1 in the third and if I take the penalty for this, it’s all on me. And if it weren’t for the fact that the refs have been pulling this bullshit all night, not calling penalties when they should be, I wouldn’t even be considering it. As it is, we’ve lost four power play opportunities just in one period because they’ve got their heads so far up their asses they couldn’t see a damn high stick if it was right in front of them. Which it was.

I skate back into position for the faceoff, eyes on Anttonen. If he wants to play the game dirty, that’s his own fault. I can do the same thing.

The puck drops, and I skate forward, checking him hard into the boards. The whistle blows. _Oh, you have_ got _to be kidding me._

“Are you joking?” Distantly, I can hear someone skate up behind me, feel them put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back. I shake it off. “Anttonen has been on Yelchukov all night. He high sticks my center, could’ve taken an eye out, and you just let him skate off? But oh, no, better not check him into the boards, Lance. You try to do your job, keep him off the puck, and that’s a two-minute minor!”

The linesman gives me some thin excuse that I refuse to listen to as I skate off to the box.

When my two minutes is up, I skate back out to center ice and get into position. Five minutes into resumed play and it’s clear that Anttonen has decided to give up on Тёmа and start going after me instead. Lucky for him, I’m not as clearheaded as Artyom would be. It’s been a long game, we’re getting crushed out here, and I’m tired. I should at least be allowed to let out my frustration.

I manage to talk myself out of it for all of three minutes before I can’t handle it anymore. We’re at the faceoff circle again, after an icing this time. It’s me and Anttonen. I try to keep myself focused on the puck, waiting for it to drop. _Make like you’re going for the backhand to Artyom, and then knock the puck around him to get it to Dru._

I don’t even get as far as puck drop before my gloves are off.

Anttonen says something about Macy, and that’s it. I don’t even have time to think before my gloves hit the ice and my hands are shoving against his chest, pushing him backwards. “You keep her name out of your mouth, you hear me?”

 There’s a shout from the bench. I look up and Wally is glaring at me, warning me to back off. _He’s right, Lance. If you get thrown out right now, we’re down one man and we won’t be able to fight back. There’s nine minutes left on the clock, we still have a chance to tie it up. We need you in the game. Nevermind what the reporters will say about you once the game is over._ The headlines are already swimming in my head. “NHL’s first female can’t handle a little on-ice chirping, resorts to violence to solve the issue.” It’s not just a little on-ice chirping, but they won’t care. They’ll chew me out for it anyway.

 _You don’t need to do this, Tessa. You_ shouldn’t _do this._

Yeah, screw that. If I don’t defend myself, then I’m just making it worse.  The sports world is screwed up enough as it is. I won’t be that guy. I spare a glance at Wally before I make my first move. _Sorry, cap_. I raise my arms and take a swing.

_X_

We end up losing to the Flyers 3-2, and I walk off the ice with a match penalty.  Coach announces that I’ll probably be suspended for a game. I try to feel bad about it, and maybe I will in the morning, but right now I can’t bring myself to care.

Right now, I am going to go home and eat dinner at the kitchen island with Macy while she ropes me into helping her grade her students’ worksheets (this week in Ms. Morales’ kindergarten class: pattern recognition) and tries not to lecture me about fighting. She will bring it up once, stop herself, and save it for the morning.

I wake up to the news that I’ve been suspended for a game, Coach’s suspicions proving to be correct. Nothing on Anttonen. No two-thousand dollar fine, no suspension, no sensitivity training. Nothing.

_X_

“Tessa, you came to morning skate even though you were suspended for tonight’s game, why is that?”

_Well, you knew this was coming. All things considered, this is starting off better than you thought it would. Time to face the music._

For once, I let go of my media filter and tell it like it is. “Well it’s because I don’t think I should’ve been suspended.” I run my fingers through my sweat-matted hair, waiting for someone to ask the next question.

Don’t answer questions that haven’t explicitly been asked. Media Training 101.

The reporters wait for me to continue, and when they see that I won’t, they prompt me with “why is that?”

“He was asking for it.” It is a childish answer, but it is also the true answer. He was asking for it and I gave him what he wanted.

I scrub a towel through my hair so the sweat will stop dripping into my eyes. The next reporter clears their throat and asks “can you elaborate?”

I nod. “Sure. He said some words, tried to rile me up. It worked. He got what he wanted.”

“Tessa, isn’t trash talk kind of an intrinsic part of hockey? Why did you react to violently so quickly?”

Without my permission, a laugh escapes me. It’s not a happy one. “Yeah, trash talk is a part of hockey,” I agree, shrugging my shoulders. “We’ve all had it. I’ve had more than my share of trash talk in my life, believe me. When you’re the only girl on the ice, when you’re the only openly gay player in the league…it makes you a target. And usually, I don’t let it get to me. Usually, it’s not worth it. They say some words, and yeah, it’s mean, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It’s routine, at this point. It shouldn’t be happening, but it is, and I deal with it. But this wasn’t trash talk, and I know you guys know that. They don’t put subtitles on the jumbotron, but I know you saw what he said.

“Anttonen wasn’t coming after me. It wasn’t _me_ he chose to throw his bigoted comments at—it was Macy. If he had been coming after me, maybe I would have stayed in the game. Maybe I would have scored. Maybe my being there would have meant that we went into overtime and won the game.” _Maybe, maybe, maybe._ “But he didn’t come after me. And in the end, he got what he wanted. He got a fight and he got me thrown out of the game.”

There’s a silence at that, but it doesn’t last long. I just about lose my mind when the next question I hear is “do you regret it at all?”

The usual boisterous energy in the locker room is gone and I can tell that the guys are listening in. When I look over at them, Wally is looking on with barely repressed anger and Artyom has the same look on his face that he gets when he sees those animal abuse commercials on cable. It’s clear that, while the reporters knew the exact words that came out of Anttonen’s mouth, they were too busy focusing on the ice to catch the gist.

“Of course not.” _As if I could possibly feel a single shred of regret for protecting the people I care about._ “You know he doesn’t even have to go through sensitivity training for what he said? Sure, it’s going to suck having to sit out for one game, but I don’t have one single regret for what I did last night. People are going to argue themselves sick over the fact that they think I should’ve been the bigger person, that they think I shouldn’t have started throwing punches to prove my point. They’re going to say that resorting to violence is no way to let myself be heard and you know what, maybe they’re right. But sometimes, when people won’t _let you_ be heard, you have to make them. And it’s pretty damn hard to think of a way to do that without taking a swing at the guy when he’s just insulted your fiancé. So you’ll forgive me if I say that I don’t care.”

With that, I get up, grab a fresh towel, and leave. I’ve given them their sound bites; I’ve said my piece. Whether they choose to believe me or not is their own problem. Unfortunately, I don’t have a say in that.

_X_

When I get back, the reporters are gone, and the boys are hanging out around my locker. I tug my shirt into place and raise my eyebrows at them. “What’s up?”

Drury, the nineteen-year-old right winger with the big brown doe eyes, is the first to speak. “Tess, why didn’t you tell us?”

“So what, Dru, I could get more shit thrown at me?” I shake my head as I refasten the clasp on my lucky necklace. “I can fight my own battles, kiddo.”

Тёmа, who is sitting in my stall, settles me with a look. “ _Nyet. My sem’ya, krasnyy._ We help each other.”

“Yeah, Lancey,” Walt says, “if we knew the asshole was going after Mace we would’ve been off that bench in a heartbeat, you know that.”

I swallow hard against the emotion building in my throat and blink my eyes quick. _Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t let any of them know it gets to you, beyond allowing it to inspire a few punches. You’re stronger than that. You have to be._ “Yeah, alright you big losers. Thanks.”

Before the weight of the moment has time to settle, Walt calls out for a group hug and the rest of the boys, eager to comply with their captain’s orders, shuffle forward to swarm me in one big clump. None of them have showered yet, having waited for me to catch the first one, and if I hadn’t picked up on that before, I definitely did now. It smells awful, like any group of twenty-one practice-sweaty men would, but I don’t say anything against it. Oddly enough, it’s nice. So long as you can get past the smell.

_X_

It’s game six of the Eastern Conference Final, I’ve been with the Boston Bruins for six and a half months, and we have a real shot at winning the cup. The Pens are up by one, but if we play as hard in the third period as we have been all game, we could tie the series 3-3 and force a game seven, taking the series back to Boston to win the Eastern Conference title.

Everything is looking good. Intermission ends, and I take the ice. The puck drops and when I move to accept the pass I twist my hips in the opposite direction of my skates. My legs get tangled together and I manage to make it a full two feet before I trip and send myself stumbling face-first onto the ice. Fortunately, I manage to splay my hands out just fast enough to avoid breaking my nose. Unfortunately, when I try to get up, pain flares through my ankle and I fall back down.

_Breathe, Lance. Sharp, deep breaths. Leave the pain behind when you exhale. You can get up, it’s just a small sprain, nothing to worry about. Get back to the bench. Rest it for a couple seconds, and you’ll be back on the ice with the next line change. It’s the Eastern Conference Final, you’re not leaving that easily._

Тёmа skates around me, holding out a hand. I shake him off. “ _Ya v poryadke_ , Artyom. I got it.”

He reaches his hand out more insistently, making to grab my arm despite my protests. I push him out of the way. “I said _I’m fine_. I can get up.” I grit my teeth and push myself up onto my skates. When I cross the ice to get to the bench, I put as much weight on it as I can. No one needs to see me limp, no one needs to see that there’s anything wrong with me. It’s just a sprain, I can keep playing.

Coach shakes his head when I try to sit down. “Tess, go to the trainer’s room.”

“I’m fine.”

He looks pointedly at Wally, who sighs and tilts his head in the direction of the locker room. “Tess, go, you’re not going back on the ice.”

“I said I’m fine, Wally, I don’t need an eval.” _They’re going to tell me I can’t play and they’re going to hold me back and I won’t be able to be on the ice to win the cup. The reporters are going to say I couldn’t hack it, that I was too weak. They’re going to say that anyone else would have gotten back in the game and kept playing. I_ need _to keep going._ “If I can skate back here on my own, then I can play.”

“It’s not up for debate,” he says. “We’re putting Zach on your line. If you go back out there for the next line change, it’ll be a too-many-men penalty. Are you gonna take a stupid penalty like that when the Eastern Conference title is on the line?”

_If they put Zachausson on the ice this late in the game, we’re not going to make it to game seven. The media is going to blame me for being too weak, for not pushing through it and finishing the game. They’re going to eat me alive._

“Wally, you have to let them put me out there, it’s _game six_ of the _Eastern Conference Finals_ , I have to—“

“What you have to do is go to the trainer’s room and get an eval.” His tone leaves no room for arguments. “I’m not kidding, Lancey, Zach is going out there whether you like it or not. If you get us a too-many-men penalty in game six of the Eastern Conference Final, I’m having them scratch you from game seven. Get out of here, go put some ice on that before you make it worse.”

_X_

I watch the rest of the game from the television in the locker room. We win in double overtime. We’re going back home for game seven, and I won’t be playing. When I stripped off my gear for the eval, my ankle swelled up to twice its size, no longer being held down by the pressure of my pads. They told me I would be out for the rest of the playoffs, maybe being able to come back in time for the last game of the Stanley Cup Final, if I promised to stay off it and if the cup final made it to game seven.

When the boys walk through the tunnel and into the locker room, I can tell Wally is about to give me an earful. I sit up straight in my stall and wait for it.

“What the _hell_ were you doing out there, Lance?”

Okay, better than I expected. I thought there was going to be a lot more harsh language than that.

“I could have kept playing.”

He looks pointedly at my ankle, elevated on top of my gear bag with a bag of ice wrapped tightly around it. “Really?”

I scrub my hands through my hair in frustration. “Christ, Wally, alright!” My voice echoes off the walls of the locker room and everyone turns around to look at me. “What do you want me to say, that I didn’t want the media to call me out on not being able to handle it? Fine, you’re right! I knew that they were going to chew me up and spit me out if I sat out the rest of the game for a sprained ankle. It’s the cup, Walt, they never would’ve let me live this down.”

“Fuck, Tess, you think that matters? None of this goddamn matters if you keep playing through an injury and make it worse! We need you on that ice and we can’t have you there if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’m out for the rest of the playoffs anyway!” I explode. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Drury jump while he pulls his pads off his shoulders. It almost makes me feel bad for yelling, but I’m too riled up to stop now. “It wouldn’t have mattered! Oskarsson was in goal every single game you guys played in the playoffs two years ago, and he was suffering from a busted hip. That was a hell of a lot worse than this. All they’re going to do is compare me to him and say that I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t handle it. The poor little girl couldn’t hack it out there with the big boys and now—”

“I shouldn’t have gone back in after that injury,” Oskarsson interrupts. His voice is soft, but his words carry a certain weight. It makes me stop. “I didn’t get to play at all last season, Tess. I sat out for eighty-two regular season games and eight playoff games because I was too prideful to get the surgery I needed and let the team win without me. Do you know how awful it is watching your team play an _entire season_ without you when you could have been there with them if you had just sat back for the rest of the playoffs and gotten your hips fixed? If I had let them pull me for the rest of the finals, I would have gotten surgery, I would have healed in the offseason, and I would have played last year. But I didn’t. I made them put me back in goal every night until we got to hoist that cup, and I paid the price. You don’t want to have to do that.”

There’s a restless energy in my bones and I keep clenching and unclenching my fingers in an effort to release it. If I don’t, I might give in to my urge to get up and pace around the locker room. He’s right, and I hate it. Because the same thing doesn’t apply to me, hasn’t applied to me since I signed up to play in the NHL. “That’s not what this is about, Oskar, okay, you guys don’t _get it_.”

“That is what this is about, Lance,” Walt says. “The media can talk all the shit they want, but that’s exactly what this is about.” I open my mouth to argue further, but he holds up a hand to stop me. “I know, you don’t want them to think you can’t handle it. But if any one of us went down like that, we wouldn’t have even gotten up. We would’ve sat there on the ice and someone would’ve had to walk us down the tunnel. Out with minor ankle injury, day-to-day, one week at the least.”

Dru speaks up next. “I know you get a lot of flack from the media, Tessa. You have to work harder than anyone else to prove that you belong here. But _we_ know you belong here. We’re your team and we believe in you. That’s all that matters, eh?” I give the kid a soft smile. He’s grown on me over the course of the season, and he’s doing his best to keep up the morale.

It’s too bad he’s wrong. I’d really like it if he was right.

_X_

We lose the next game, 4-1, and get kicked out of the playoffs. The Eastern Conference title goes to Pittsburgh. I try not to feel glad about that—I really didn’t want to win the Stanley Cup by riding the bench.

_X_

“They want to give me the A next year, if I sign with them again,” I say, climbing into bed and resting my head in Macy’s lap as she sits against the headboard, reading one of the Coffee Shop Mysteries that the third-grade teacher down the hall has recently gotten her into.

She runs her fingers through my hair, engagement ring catching on the tangles of my shower damp curls, not looking up from her book as she asks “so what are you going to do?”

I shrug. “Either way, I’m screwed. I sign again and I suffer through another year of being scrutinized by the media, or I turn them down and I get called out on not being able to handle it all.”

Macy sighs, setting her book on the bedside table and shimmying down until she is lying flat on the bed, facing me. She rests her forehead against mine and I can feel the tops of the frames of her glasses pressing into my skin. “But what do _you_ want? When’s the last time you did something for yourself, without letting anyone else tell you how to do it?”

She has a point.

_X_

They schedule me a press conference when I finally make my decision.

“Tessa, your contract ran out at the end of the season, where have you gotten with the negotiations so far?”

_They really don’t waste any time getting down to business, do they? No “congratulations on the wedding,” no “how has your offseason been so far,” just straight to the point. At least it makes it easier._

“Well there wasn’t really much to negotiate.” I can see the reporters in the room get confused at that, some tilting their heads like a dog that knows it’s being talked to but can’t quite understand what you’re telling it.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

I smile. “Sure. It has been a really great year. The boys were great, the hockey was great, and I had an incredible time up here. It’s more than I could even imagine. But it’s not where I’m supposed to be.”

“I spent a lot of time talking to my wife when they started asking about contract negotiations.” As I speak, I twist the silver band around my left ring finger. It is both a nervous gesture, and a subtle emphasis on the fact that I am married. Not that they’ll ever stop speculating about the so-called “locker room romances” that I was a part of. “She’s pretty smart. She asked me what I _wanted_ to do, not what I thought I _should_ be doing. It’s been a long time since I made a decision based just on what I wanted. What I want, more than anything, is to play hockey. And I can do that here, sure, but it’s not _my_ hockey. It can’t be my hockey, not when everything I do is being analyzed to hell and back. Not when I have to constantly keep focus on every little play, every move I make, so I can justify it later.”

A reporter in the front row raises her hand. It catches me by surprise; usually they just shout out the question they want answered. I nod in her direction.

“So Tessa, what does this mean for you and the Bruins?”

I lean in close to the microphone, making sure I’ll be heard. “I’m leaving.” I can see the room getting antsy, can tell I’m at least three seconds away from an eruption of questions, three seconds away from losing them to a sea of flashing lights as pictures are being snapped at every direction, so I keep speaking. “I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. I’m good at hockey, and I don’t need to break my neck trying to prove that to you guys by playing with a group of men. I’ve enjoyed my time here, and I’ll miss everyone I played with, but I’m not supposed to be here. I thought it was about the opportunities I would gain, not anything else. I told myself that’s all it was about when I accepted that contract. I was lying. The whole time, it was about showing everyone that I was great. The minute that coach walked in on a Pride scrimmage and told me I could play in the NHL, that has been what this whole thing was about. Not hockey, but proving that I deserved it.”

The room settles down the longer I talk and I pause for a minute, looking out at the crowd. “I did deserve it, I know that. The media might tell you different, but I know I deserved it. But whether I play with women or with men, that doesn’t make a difference. I don’t need men to prove to you guys that I can play hockey. I’m still the same player, and I’m good no matter what. The Pride have offered me a chance to come back, and I signed this morning. I’m going back to playing my own hockey.”

This isn’t me giving up. They’re going to say it is, and three days ago I would have said the same thing. But the fact of the matter is this: I’m not giving up. I made this decision for me, no one else. And for me, it was the right decision. Maybe someday someone out there will be made the same offer, and maybe they’ll stick with it. Maybe they’ll play in the NHL, surrounded by men, until the day they retire. But that’s not who I am; I can’t do that.

It doesn’t mean I gave up. It doesn’t mean I’m a lesser player. Dru was right. I knew I was good at hockey, and my team knew I was good at hockey. That’s the only thing that matters. Going back to the NWHL just means going back to a place where it’s not so hard to believe that. It means going back to a place where I am more appreciated, where I don’t have to work myself into an early grave to show that I belong there.

Maybe there are less opportunities in the NWHL. Maybe it doesn’t get as much recognition. Maybe there are people who are going to say that it’s not _real_ hockey. Maybe there are people who are going to say that I should have stayed, that it wasn’t worth it to go back.

If they do, they’re wrong. There are less teams, sure, less people know about us, and we only have four teams. Hell, we don’t even get _televised_. But it _is_ real hockey. It’s the kind of hockey that focuses on what you do, without comparing you to every single person in the league. It’s the kind of hockey that lets you make mistakes, that lets you get injured without worrying that you’re going to get chewed out by the media later for sitting out for a couple of games. It’s the kind of hockey that I want to be playing—the kind of hockey that I know I’m _supposed_ to be playing.

And it deserves a hell of a lot more credit than it gets.


End file.
